


The Replacements

by takethesky87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case fic (sort of), Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Kink Meme, Missing Scene, Sherlock is lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethesky87/pseuds/takethesky87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a day solving crimes with Molly, Sherlock tries out a few more candidates. </p><p>Written for a kink meme prompt, found <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129356038#t129356038">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Replacements

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s just pretend there are a few extra days squeezed in between Sherlock’s day with Molly and Mary coming to Sherlock with the skip code text.

Sherlock wakes the next morning on the sofa, a blanket tangled around his bare feet and a dull ache tingling near his appendix, where the bruises from Serbia are still healing.

It’s the first time he has had a real sleep since returning to London. Early light seeps through the cheesecloth curtains over the window, transforming his music stand and the nearby bookcase into dark silhouettes. Sherlock turns and breathes in Baker Street, listening to the muffled noises of London outside. All that time abroad, yet he never expected that _home_ would cause this knot of warmth to curl in his stomach, nor that his very thoughts would feel so light. 

He springs from the sofa and walks over the coffee table to the fireplace, regarding himself in the mirror before making tea in the kitchen. Heading back into the sitting room, he blows on the steaming cup and loses himself in the collage he has constructed above the sofa.

By the time Mrs. Hudson comes in, the sun has cast the flat in gold; and when Sherlock glances up, she has already whisked away the half-empty cup of cold tea, taking it into the kitchen with an armful of other dishes and a newspaper.

“Morning, Sherlock,” she calls, and hums to herself.

“Mm,” Sherlock responds, and peels himself out of the cloud of books and papers he has created on the floor. He will need a new laptop; the netbook Mycroft gave him is sorely lacking, and is probably one of the many tools Mycroft is using to spy on him. Sherlock smiles to himself, surveying his work on the hardwood. Then the buzzer rings downstairs.

 _Client_. Mrs. Hudson pokes her head out from the kitchen. “I’ll get that, dear,” she says, then disappears down the stairs. Sherlock settles into his armchair, crossing his legs, and sees that the chair Molly used yesterday is still pulled out from the desk. After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson returns with a young woman in tow. “Here you are, love,” she says, guiding the woman around the heap of debris on the floor and into John’s chair. “Sherlock will take care of you. Won’t you, Sherlock?”

After one glance at the woman (late twenties, Irish, recently married, two cats at home, cried all through the cab ride here), Sherlock raises his eyes to Mrs. Hudson. “Why don’t you join us?”

She tilts her head at him. “Sorry?”

“Take notes if you like.” He gestures to the desk chair. “There’s a pen and notebook on the desk.”

Mrs. Hudson frowns at him, mouth open. “I—” She stops, and frowns again. After a moment, she bends toward the woman. “Excuse us, just for a moment. Sherlock, the kitchen, please?”

He leaps out of his chair and follows her to the kitchen. Once there, Mrs. Hudson props her hands on her hips and says, in a loud stage whisper, “ _Join_ you?”

Sherlock nods. “You’ve watched John and I interview clients, you know perfectly well how it’s done. Look, I pulled out the chair for you.” He points, catching the eye of the client, who is looking over her shoulder at them in confusion.

A sad smile crosses Mrs. Hudson’s face. She touches her hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Sherlock, dear, I’m flattered, but … I’m not a detective.”

“Neither was John,” Sherlock says, “not at first.” He pulls a face that’s somewhere between forlorn and wistful. “I would very much like to have you here.”

It melts her, as he expects. “Well,” she says with a sigh, “if it means that much to you.” Her eyes brighten. “I was a secretary in my younger years, you know. Fastest typist at the agency, 103 words per minute. That was how I met my husband. We worked in the same—”

“Yes, thrilling.” He takes her by the arms, pressing her forward toward the woman in John’s chair. “Shall we?”

\---

She is markedly different from both John and Molly. The first woman they see tells a story about her brother going missing, and when she starts to cry, Mrs. Hudson puts down pen and paper and takes her hand, eventually rising to bring over a box of tissues. The case is simple enough—money troubles causing the brother to avoid the rest of the family, no one in real danger—a waste of his time, really. Mrs. Hudson walks the woman all the way to the front door at the end of it, and when she comes back upstairs, Sherlock finds himself trapped by a long tale about Mrs. Turner’s son-in-law and his gambling problems. 

He is saved by another ring at the door, this time a man in a sport jacket and horn-rimmed glasses. Someone at his bookshop has been stealing from the till, he says, and he wants Sherlock to find out who it is.

“Are there any cameras in the shop?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

Sherlock taps his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Obviously not, or else he wouldn’t be here. Clearly no security protocols for this type of situation, either, or you would have handled it in-house. Small business?”

The man, Calvin Penny, nods. “Just the one little place, down on Railton Road. My mum and dad ran it before they died, but now it’s just me.”

“And how many employees?”

The man glances at the ceiling, counting. “We’re at seven, now. Hired a new bloke two months ago.”

“Seven.” Sherlock scoffs. “Just seven employees, and you can’t tell who’s stealing from you?”

 _Don’t be a prat_ , John’s voice taunts from the back of his mind, and Sherlock brushes it off with a violent headshake.

They visit the bookshop after lunch. Mrs. Hudson rides with Sherlock in the cab and insists on paying, not that Sherlock had any intention to pay in the first place. When they arrive, Penny is standing just inside, his seven employees milling about—some shelving books, others circled around a wooden table shoved into a corner of the tiny space. “I called them all in,” Penny says. He rounds up the ones among the stacks, until all seven are gathered by the table. “Ask whatever you like.”

Sherlock solves it in four minutes. As he expected, it is the sixteen-year-old new hire, whose nerves would have given him away even without the other clues. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson linger until the police arrive, browsing books while Penny loudly scolds the kid in the back room.

Mrs. Hudson meets Sherlock in the science section, where Sherlock is paging through a book on biochemistry. Sherlock takes note of the two cookbooks in her arms and raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you have enough of those?”

“Oh, hush,” she says, swatting his shoulder, and pays for the books while Sherlock directs the just-arrived police to the back.

\---

“Where to next?” Mrs. Hudson asks brightly as they sit in the back of the cab, clutching her notebook in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.

Sherlock grins and shows her a text from Lestrade. “Crime scene.”

They pull up to a block of flats in Haverstock, the street buzzing with police officers and marked off with yellow tape. Sherlock lifts the tape for Mrs. Hudson and walks with her up the steps to the front door. He feels the eyes of every officer on his back, their whispers carried by the wind. Sherlock realizes this is the first active crime scene he has walked into since his return. He straightens his shoulders, chin held high, and sees Lestrade at the end of the hallway.

“Sherlock, there you—oh.” Lestrade blinks at Mrs. Hudson, then furrows his brow at Sherlock. “Did you go shopping together?”

“Caught a thief,” Sherlock corrects. “Mrs. Hudson will be assisting me today. What do you have for us, Lestrade?”

It’s a murder, a rather nasty one, the man’s head bashed and bloody from a blunt weapon, possibly a paperweight. Very little blood on the floor, though—certainly he did not die here, but why drag the man into the middle of his living room, for his girlfriend to see upon coming home? “Could be a message for the girlfriend,” Sherlock says, sweeping through the space, observing the picture frames, the food in the fridge. “She has only been living here for a short time—”

“Sherlock …”

“—so either the killer knew she recently moved in, or was unaware and didn’t expect her to see the body. Mrs. Hudson, have you—”

But he stops, because Mrs. Hudson is no longer there, and Lestrade is looking at him with concern.

_Great, now you’ve upset Mrs. Hudson._

“Quiet,” Sherlock mutters, and breezes past Lestrade into the hall.

Mrs. Hudson is standing at the far end of the hallway, her back to him. When Sherlock reaches her, she is white as a sheet. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice trembling. “I thought I would be fine, Lord knows I’ve seen enough body parts in your fridge. It’s a bit different when it’s a person, though, isn’t it?” She laughs nervously, her fingers playing over her mouth. “Don’t worry about me, Sherlock, I’ll take a cab home.”

 _Go with her and make sure she’s okay_ , John lectures, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. “Enough,” he growls.

When he opens his eyes, Mrs. Hudson is frowning. “What?”

“Not you.” He attempts a smile. “I’ll see you at Baker Street.”

Sherlock walks back to the crime scene, hands balled into fists. _I’m disappointed_ , John sighs, _though not surprised_.

“Shut _up_ , John!” Sherlock shouts, and ignores the looks the forensics team give him.

\---

He has narrowed the murderer down to two suspects by the time he leaves the flats in Haverstock. He turns the case over in his mind throughout the ride home, forgetting the incident with Mrs. Hudson until he sees her door ajar at the end of the hall of Baker Street.

She must have been waiting for him, because her face appears in the space between door and threshold before Sherlock has even reached the stairs. The uneasiness that had settled in the creases around her eyes at the crime scene is accompanied by something else now— _pity_ , Sherlock notes, and turns his nose up at it. As she peeks out further, Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and slams the door shut upon reaching the flat.

Not until Sherlock has opened his netbook and is scanning his emails does Mrs. Hudson knock gently on the door. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, she comes in anyway.

“Sherlock, dear, it’s not good to stare at a computer screen in the dark like this.” She meanders through the pitch-black flat until she finds the floor lamp by the sofa and flicks it on. Sherlock winces. “Did you solve the case for the detective inspector?”

Sherlock opens an email written in Italian and raises an eyebrow at it. “It’s a work in progress. I’ll solve it by morning.”

“Mm.” She slides into the chair across from Sherlock at the desk. “He’ll come ‘round, you know. John never stays angry at you for long.”

Sherlock looks at her. The flat is still mostly cloaked in dark, but the lamp behind Mrs. Hudson casts her in a gold-rimmed shadow. She smiles at him, warmly yet still tinged with pity, and suddenly a sting of pain tingles in Sherlock’s abdomen. The bruises from Serbia are acting up again, Sherlock thinks, and he shifts in his seat to appease them. Yes, definitely must be the bruises.

“Thank you for today,” she says when Sherlock remains silent. With a pat of his hand, she rises and heads for the door. “It’s very nice to have you here again.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, and watches her leave.

\---

Around two in the morning, Sherlock texts, _Look for heavy snow globe in girlfriend’s parents’ house._

As the sun is rising, he pulls up another name and types, _How’s your Italian?_

\---

“Sherlock!” Angelo booms, and practically tackles Sherlock with an embrace. “Can’t tell you how pleased I was to hear the news. Never thought you were _really_ dead, you know, I was telling the missus just the other day how everybody had it wrong. Fooled them, didn’t you!”

He laughs, clapping Sherlock on the back. Sherlock smiles, biting back the prickle in his shoulder blade, where the knife wound from his month in Greece has never healed quite right. “I’ll need a secluded table,” Sherlock says, “somewhere away from prying eyes.”

“Anything for you, Sherlock,” Angelo says, and leads him to the back room.

The restaurant is quiet, only just open for the day, and besides the occasional waiter traveling from kitchen to front of house and back, Sherlock is alone in this second dining room. He waits for Angelo to bring over menus before producing the pen and paper from his jacket and offering them to him.

Angelo stares at them. “What’s this?”

“You never did answer my text. How’s your Italian?”

“You think I speak Italian because I own an Italian restaurant?”

“No. I know you speak Italian because the shorthand you use on the table tickets is a combination of English and Italian, and you pronounce the Italian words on the menu without an accent. You also learned to cook from your grandparents on your mother’s side, who are native to Northern Italy and who probably never learned English themselves.”

“How did you … no, I won’t even ask,” Angelo says, shaking his head. “You never cease to amaze, Sherlock. And yes, my Italian is very good. But what has that got to do with that notebook?”

“It’s for taking notes.”

Angelo frowns. “Yes?”

“The client meeting me here speaks Italian. You may take notes if you like.”

“Oh, I see.” Angelo accepts the notebook and thumbs through it. “So you need a translator.”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock sighs, exasperated. “I need an assistant, Angelo.”

“Oh.” He frowns again, cocking his head at Sherlock. “Don’t you have one already? I’ve seen his face in the papers, what’s his name … John? You’ve brought him here before, I remember.”

“Yes, he …” Sherlock swallows, opening one of the menus and pretending to look through it. “He’s not available. Not to mention, he doesn’t speak Italian. Sit down, Angelo, it’ll be fun.”

The client, Violetta Bianco, arrives at half past eleven. Late sixties, short gray hair, long painted fingernails—she slides into the booth and begins her story in stilted English, until Sherlock stops her in Italian. Her tale involves a poison ring, an heirloom passed down in her family for generations, and the reading of her ex-husband’s will. “I arrived in London a few days ago,” she says in Italian, digging into her handbag and producing the ring. She hands it to Sherlock, who holds it close to his eyes, opening the hinge to reveal the hollow cavity beneath the tarnished blue gem. “My ex-husband moved to London many years ago, so the will was read here, in his home. I wear that poison ring every day, I’ve always thought it was lovely. But I think someone has tampered with it while I’ve been in London, without my knowing. Something about the smell of it.”

Sherlock nods. “Also, a residue of some kind along the edges here.”

Angelo leans over to Sherlock. “Sorry, a poison ring?”

“A ring with a hidden compartment, very popular across Europe during the sixteenth century. Can be used to store any number of things—locks of hair, small portraits, perfume. And poison, naturally. One simply tips the ring over an enemy’s drink, and there’s your murder.” He looks up at the woman. “Who has been murdered?”

“No one,” she says. “At least, no one I know of. I tried to tell the police, but since I have no proof of a crime, they won’t investigate. But someone took my poison ring, Mr. Holmes, and they put something sinister in it. I know they have.”

“Interesting. A murder weapon but no murder.” He glances at Angelo, who shrugs, tapping the pen against the table. “Tell me more about the reading of your ex-husband’s will, Mrs. Bianco.”

\---

Angelo will not go with him to Bart’s. The tables around Sherlock have begun to fill by the time the client leaves, and Angelo’s attention is drawn to the growing bustle in the other dining room. “Tell me how it ends, will you?” Angelo says, pressing the pen and notebook into Sherlock’s hands. “Wait, don’t—I’ll just read it on the blog later, won’t I? The Poison Ring!” He laughs, turning toward the kitchen. “It’ll be a page-turner, that one. Don’t want to spoil it for myself.”

There is nothing in his inventory of past injuries that can explain the sudden, aching pinch beneath his ribcage, so Sherlock chooses to ignore it, threading his scarf around his neck before making his way to the front. He spends the cab ride with his eyes shut, sifting through the information Bianco has given him, carefully placing each suspect in the room where the will was read. The cab driver has to turn around and raise his voice before Sherlock realizes they have reached St. Bart’s.

The hospital looms over the road like a bad dream. Sherlock takes the long way around to the side entrance and discovers that his key still works. Once inside, he heads to his usual lab, but halts at the sight of the man about to leave it.

“Hello, Mike.”

Mike Stamford looks up from the doorway, startled, before a wide smile washes over him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says. “My God, look at you. Death has treated you well, hasn’t it?”

And then Sherlock receives his second hug of the day, a swift squeeze around his shoulders until Mike draws back and takes Sherlock in.

“Wow, what a sight you are. It’s good to have you back, Sherlock, London’s missed you.”

“And I it.”

“Have you seen John yet?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Of course I have,” he says, before thinking better of it.

A grin tugs at Mike’s lips. “Yeah, ‘course. Guessing he didn’t take it well, seeing as he’s not here.” He points to the ring box in Sherlock’s hand. “What have you got there?”

“A case,” Sherlock replies. He steps back, considering the man. “Care to solve a murder with me, Doctor?”

They spend the next hour together in the lab, Mike pulling samples from the residue in the ring while Sherlock runs various tests on them. He’s missed this, Sherlock muses, peering through a microscope while a second sample spins in the centrifuge. Dismantling Moriarty’s web required sadly little laboratory work.

Mike places a beaker next to Sherlock. “He’ll come ‘round eventually, you know.”

Sherlock adjusts a knob, bringing the cells on the slide into focus. “That appears to be a popular theory.”

“Well, it’s true. He’s a good man, John Watson. One of the best men I know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says quietly.

“All he needs is time—just like anyone would, if their best mate bloody rose from the dead.”

 _Best mate._ The words simmer in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach, warm and strange. Then the centrifuge dings, and Sherlock springs from his stool to retrieve the sample.

While Sherlock prepares another slide, he sees Mike out of the corner of his eye bending over to look through the microscope, scribbling something in the notebook Sherlock has given him. Soon Sherlock returns, and Mike moves out of the way, allowing Sherlock to swap samples and gaze through the lens again.

“Curious,” Sherlock mutters.

“What?”

Mike is poised at Sherlock’s side, the notebook open and pen in hand. Sherlock eases the slide out and holds it to the light. “Colchicine. Do you know it?”

“It sounds familiar.”

“It’s a substance found in _Colchium atumnale_ , the autumn crocus. A flower,” he says, in response to Mike’s puzzled expression. “Colchicine poisoning produces very similar symptoms to that of arsenic poisoning. Vomiting, organ failure—can take days for a person overdosed with it to die.”

“So, whoever was given the colchicine in this ring … they could still be alive?”

“It’s possible, yes. Likely, even, given that Violetta Bianco knows of no one who has died.” Sherlock closes his eyes, bringing the reading of the will to the front of his mind again, watching each puzzle piece move. “Synthetic particulates.”

“Sorry?”

“In the other sample. Colchicine is used to treat various medical conditions, when dosed correctly. This particular strand came from a bottle, not a plant.” Eyes still closed, he presses his fingers to his chin, sorting through each person at the reading. Almost everyone there had a motive, but who had access to colchicine? Who would go so far as to—

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “Of _course_.” He darts to the counter where the ring and its box lie, scooping them into his trouser pocket before retrieving coat and scarf. Mike watches him fly about the room, but doesn’t leave his spot by the microscope. “Come on,” Sherlock says, beckoning him to the door. “The police will want their murderer.”

“What, you’ve solved it?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No, I’m late for tea. Obviously I’ve solved it, yes.” He stands in the doorway, hand on the doorknob. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“God,” Sherlock mutters, “it’s like wrangling sheep. Are you coming with me to Scotland Yard or not?”

“Er.” Mike looks at his watch. “I have a class to teach in half an hour.”

Sherlock stares at him. “An attempted murderer is on the loose, and a woman is about to die unless we find her. And you’re worried about a class.”

“Sherlock.” Mike sighs and walks to the door, regarding Sherlock as though speaking to a child. Sherlock tightens his grip on the doorknob. “I can’t just run off with you. I have responsibilities here. Helping you with the lab stuff, that was great fun, it really was, but …” He smiles, handing over the pen and notebook. “You don’t need me anymore, do you?”

The cab ride to Scotland Yard is interminable, traffic slowed to a crawl. Sherlock texts Lestrade, then turns his eyes to the window, tapping his fingers restlessly against his knees. _No one has time for you anymore, Sherlock_ , John says, his voice a bee in Sherlock’s ear.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock responds, though only halfheartedly.

\---

Sherlock slams the ring box on Lestrade’s desk.

“Murderer: Anne Bianco, second wife to Michele Bianco, wealthy Italian investor who recently died in his home in London. Victim: Caterina Lund, Bianco’s daughter and only child, heir to most of Bianco’s fortune—unless she dies, at which point the funds transfer to the second wife, Anne. Crime scene: Bianco’s home, during the reading of his will, where these inheritance details first came to light. Murder weapon: Colchicine, a plant-based poison, slipped into the daughter’s food or drink. 

“Anne Bianco learned that she was locked out of most of her husband’s inheritance and decided to do something drastic about it. She knew Bianco was taking small doses of colchicine to treat his gout, so she poisoned the daughter with it, knowing that the symptoms would not begin to take effect until a few hours later, after everyone had gone home. She also knew that Violetta Bianco, the first wife, owned an antique poison ring. The poison ring itself was too small a vessel for the amount of colchicine Anne needed, but she knew Violetta wore it often. So, on the day of the will reading, she persuaded Violetta to remove the ring—perhaps she asked to see it, or perhaps she stole it while Violetta was cooking or washing dishes—and rubbed a small amount of the poison inside the ring, to divert attention from herself in case the daughter’s eventual death was ruled suspicious. What she did not expect, however, was for Violetta to notice something was off about her beloved ring and to then consult a detective about it.”

Lestrade lifts the box from his desk and opens it, regarding the ring with his usual glazed-over expression. “You got all that from a ring?”

“And from Violetta Bianco, yes. She does love her family gossip.” He slides a hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone, rocking on his heels. “I should probably also mention that the daughter, Caterina Lund, is still alive.”

Lestrade’s eyes go wide. “She what?”

“The poison hasn’t finished killing her yet. There should still be time to save her, if you hurry.” He brings Violetta Bianco’s number up on his phone and shows it to Lestrade. “Call the first wife, she’ll have the information you need.”

Lestrade stares open-mouthed at the number, then quickly dials it into his own phone, gesturing for another officer to come over. Sherlock smiles at the commotion that begins to gather around Lestrade’s desk; he slips out, coat spinning as he heads for the door, and only pauses when Lestrade runs over and stops him.

“Hey,” Lestrade says. “Thank you.”

“It’s a wonder how you ever got on without me,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade’s expression turns sour, though his voice is fond. “Yeah, you’d like to think that, wouldn’t you.” He grins despite himself, and Sherlock responds in kind. “Hey—no Mrs. Hudson with you this time? No Molly?”

Sherlock’s face falls before he is able to hide it. “I work better alone,” he says, and before Lestrade can react, Sherlock turns on his heel, leaving the bustle of the police force behind him.

\---

Baker Street is cold and dark when Sherlock returns to it. He finds a dressing gown in his old wardrobe (musty and dusty from two years of disuse—John would chastise him for wearing it now) and moves his armchair so that it faces the collage on the wall. Clicking on the lights at either side of the collage, Sherlock grabs a biscuit from a tray left by Mrs. Hudson and collapses in his chair, nibbling, thinking.

A loud, clumsy knock on the door downstairs jostles him out of his reverie. He looks outside—the sky is a velvet blue-black, streetlamps spilling light onto an empty road. It must be after midnight now, and yet the thunderous knocking echoes again from below. No sound from Mrs. Hudson in 221A. With a groan, Sherlock pushes himself out of his chair, limbs tingling with numbness after hours in the same position, and trudges down the seventeen steps to the front door.

When he opens it, Harry Watson slaps him in the face.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. The Watsons have always been able to catch him off guard, and Harry dropping by Baker Street in the middle of the night is just another example of Watson unpredictability that he can add to his growing list. 

Sherlock looks her over as she stands, silent and seething, in the doorway. She is slightly taller than her brother, but wider as well, her ash-blonde hair cut into fringe around her forehead and the rest pulled back in a ponytail. Sherlock has only met her once before. It was the week of John’s birthday—she had not shown up to the party (neither had Sherlock, for that matter), but instead crashed-landed in the flat two days later, sodden with crocodile tears and reeking of vodka. The incident drove John into a foul mood for a full week after that, and Sherlock has not heard John speak of her since.

He wonders, now, as the fiery woman grinds her teeth in front of him, what interaction she and her brother have had in the last two years. What rehab facilities she has checked herself out of, what birthday parties she has conveniently missed.

“You bastard,” she says, voice shaking. The smell of alcohol rises off of her like steam from a teacup, though there is a lucidity in her eyes now that Sherlock did not see the last time they met. “You arsehole, you sick fuck, you … you …” She exhales, one hand flattening as though ready to slap him again.

Sherlock flashes his teeth at her. “Always a pleasure to see you, Harry.”

She pushes her way into the foyer, leaving the door open, where a chilly November wind howls through. “Do you even realize what you did to him?” she yells, the words bursting from her. “What he’s _gone through_ in the last two years?”

“I would ask the same of you,” Sherlock says coolly.

A new wave of indignation flashes across her eyes. When she slaps him this time, Sherlock catches her wrist before she makes contact with his cheekbone.

“Always violence with your family. Your brother nearly broke my nose the other day.”

“That’s because you deserve it, you prick.” She wrestles out of his grasp, and an odd look settles over her. “You’ve talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“And he punched you?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Among other acts of brutality, yes.”

Her eyes brighten. “Such as?”

“Tackling me, head-butting me,” Sherlock mutters, and is alarmed when she laughs at that—actually laughs, tossing her head back and holding the balustrade for balance.

“I’m glad you find that funny.”

“You got what was coming to you, Sherlock. It’s very satisfying to hear.” She shakes her head. “A shame it won’t last, though.”

Sherlock frowns. “Sorry?”

“Well, he’s avoiding you now, yeah?” She puts her hands on her hips. “Acts like he never wants to see you again?”

When Sherlock nods, she says, “Jesus, you actually believe him, don’t you? Listen.” She claps her hands on his shoulders, looking squarely into his eyes. “From one screw-up to another, let me tell you: John will take you back, always. He bloody loves you too much not to.”

Sherlock stares at her as she backs away, a smug smile on her face. “God knows what John sees in you, Sherlock. You sure as hell haven’t done anything to earn his friendship.” Her face turns suddenly serious. “But if you jump off a bleeding building in front of him again, so help me, I will make you wish you never met him.”

She goes to the door, turning the collar of her coat up against the wind. Sherlock eyes her warily. “So that’s it, then.”

She nods. “That’s it.”

“Well.” Sherlock slides his hands into his pockets. “I would offer you fare for a cab, seeing as you are quite inebriated, but I suspect you would rather walk home and die from hypothermia than accept money from me.”

She grins. “You’d be correct. Goodbye and fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” she says cheerfully, and slams the door behind her.

\---

Sherlock lies on his back, holding the notebook above him and flipping through it, page by page.

The first few pages are the most detailed. Molly jotted down nearly every word he and the clients said the day she spent with him, her handwriting neat and measured at first, then a barely legible scribble by the end. By contrast, the following pages are written in shorthand. “Interesting,” Sherlock says—perhaps this skill will come in handy later, if he and Mrs. Hudson ever find themselves in need of communicating in code. He turns the page, where a single sentence has been written in Italian. After that, the pages are filled with chemical compounds and words abbreviated so severely that Sherlock can hardly tell what they stand for. Mike is left-handed, Sherlock notes, like John—the leftmost edges of each page are lightly smeared with ink.

Sherlock leafs through the notebook twice more before standing up and stretching. The dull color of the clouds outside threatens morning, and Sherlock’s stomach rumbles. He dismisses it and makes tea instead, taking a few burning sips before setting his mug on a side table.

His eyes drift to the notebook, lying open on the desk. He picks it up and, a sudden urge seizing him, rips out the used pages in a single swipe of his hand. As the pages flutter into the bin, Sherlock opens the drawer where John used to store his laptop and places the notebook there, tucking the pen next to it.

Fatigue hits him then. The tea forgotten, Sherlock stumbles over the books on the floor until circling around to the sofa, where he collapses like a ragdoll. Face buried in a pillow, he breathes in Baker Street, listening to London wake up on the street below until, finally, he falls asleep.


End file.
